Losing you
by Naraya-Marjana
Summary: Sherlock is the brainy one and John is the touchy-feely one. Right? Well, if I was Sherlock, faked my own death and then decided to spy on my best friend via his blog, which is actually all about me, I would be compelled to read this. Would I cry? Like a baby. Would Sherlock cry? Find out for yourself.
1. Chapter 1

I probably sound as cheap as any crappy telenovela you can think of. I have always thought of myself as a reasonable bloke, a steady man. I am not as brilliant as some people, but I was a good student and I was very good at what I did for a living, which was – well, let's just say I patched up people so that they could get themselves killed another day. Not a very fulfilling profession, I can tell you.

Then there was the war and I became a different man. I got hooked on adrenaline and the thrill of near-death experiences. Some people get high on dope, I get high on fear. It's not a condition as easy to diagnose as others, but it's a disease nonetheless. I had begun to recognise the symptoms of an addiction long before I understood what I was addicted to. And then I just felt, "Well, worse things could happen. People are dying everyday and I am enjoying the scenery. Yeah, it could have been worse."

I didn't know at the time that my addiction was what helped me survive. It provided me with a peculiar sense of satisfaction. It helped me keep a clear head. I did my work faster and better and I stayed alive. Stayed alive for what, exactly? To come home? Where is home? England had been my home but now I'm just a stranger. I miss the dark nights of despair and the deadly brightness of daylight. I have been to war and I have known peace and I am clearly not cut out for the latter. I miss war. So there.

I probably should tell you that my friend has died recently and it's like ... it feels like the world has stopped in its tracks. Nothing happens anymore. I breathe, I eat, I even sleep. I've got a new job and it's fine. My life is fine. But not good. No. I will never again say my life is good until I see my friend again. Because he's not dead. He can't be. He's a bloody genius and he can't be dead. I've seen him do the most extraordinary things and I know, I know that if anyone can come back from the dead, then it's him.

I miss war, but I miss my friend more. Living with him, sharing a flat with him was not much different from the war, actually. Dead bodies or parts of them everywhere, unexpected dangers lurking in seemingly innocent places – like the fridge, for example – and no schedule. No steadiness. Just a mad twirl of images, sounds, victories and defeats. Well, defeats were all on my part. I was, after all, the stupid one. The average one. The idiot.

But you know what? No man with half a brain would leave a friend behind like I was left behind. That was rule number one in the military. Leave no one behind. Well, I am left behind. My friend died and he didn't take me with him. I always went with him anywhere he went and then I lost him. I was too slow to understand, too slow to follow, and I lost him. He indeed left me behind, but somehow I allowed it. I lost him and it's all my fault.

He was the best thing that ever happened to me. And I am not even gay! Just in case you were wondering. Because people usually do. That's why I'm trying to explain that, well, I'm not gay. Okay? Never have been and never will be. The end.

Damn you, Sherlock. As if I can ever have a normal life again after you. Just in case you're still alive, just in case you're reading this, piss off. That's what people normally say, right? Piss off!

I don't really mean it. But you already know that. If you're somewhere out there. Please.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Mr. Blogger,_

_I am a faithful reader of your blog and have much interest in all cases solved or approached by Sherlock Holmes. And although I do appreciate your style and sense of humour, I do feel your recent posts are suffused with sentiments that are misguided and misplaced. You mourn the loss of your friend yet you do not believe him dead. It is illogical and a waste of your time, not to mention mine. Please refrain from writing your blog until you regain your sanity._

_Thank you and good day,_

_Bluebell243_

John stared at the laptop and tried very hard not to scream. The message itself was everything you could expect from a disappointed fan. Crude, brisk, intentionally impolite. Or maybe just lacking in social skills (like he had never seen that before – as if he needed another reminder of the one who was gone). Other than that, it was the first letter of complaint John had ever received, but there's a first time for everything, isn't it? John had been acting out his grief, broadcasting his wounded pride and bleeding heart for the whole world to see – someone was sure going to be upset or bored or whatever.

What made John's head spin was the signature. Bluebell243. A username, apparently, but it was too coincidental – too informative. For one thing, John was absolutely sure he had never mentioned Bluebell the missing rabbit in one of his post – he had already checked. Twice, and then once more for good measure. So none of the followers could have been inspired to take up the name of the unfortunate rodent. Only himself and Sherlock knew about Bluebell – it had been a standing joke between the two of them, a would-be case to end the agony of boredom and the last resort of bad humour when all else had failed.

And the number – come on. It was true Sherlock's website had received more visits due to dramatic rise in blog's popularity, but still. Who would know or care to remember there were exactly 243 types of tobacco ash described in tedious detail? Especially since the file had been deleted by none other than Sherlock himself. John could, all in all, think of only one person who might attach any significance to that particular number. Nevertheless, it was still possible that the bunny's name and the number had been chosen randomly by someone who obviously had way too much time on his or her hands.

The other possibility was just too damn frightening. If Sherlock had indeed faked his own death – although John did not see how it could be possible – he must have been following a plan. To admit that he was a fake and then commit fake suicide, well, it was exactly the kind of crazy thing Sherlock would have conceived and executed. But Sherlock would never do anything to jeopardise his plans, would never allow anything or anyone to stand in his way.

As Sherlock had said, sentiment was dangerous to one's reasoning. He surely wasn't giving in to whatever friendly feeling he harboured towards his faithful blogger just because John was a cry baby and had once again inflicted his opinions on the world. John did not delude himself into thinking the message would have been written out of pity or remorse. Sherlock Holmes had never been prone to either of those emotions. If he was indeed following a plan of his own conception, he would not stop to consider anyone's feelings.

_After you have eliminated all that is impossible, what remains, however strange, must be the truth._

Either the username was an exceptionally strange coincidence or Sherlock was indeed writing to John. If the latter was true, it had not been done to make John feel better. Sherlock would not bother to let John know he was alive unless it suited his plans. Whatever reason Sherlock had had to lie to John, jump off that roof and then go into hiding, it was for the same reason that he had now chosen to encourage John to find him. It appeared it would be somehow essential for John to literally hunt down his best friend. Why, he could not fathom.

Sherlock was a firm believer in his own methods – it was only rational, he lived off his powers of observation and analysis. They brought him fame, they brought him money, but above all, they reduced the dullness of life that forever threatened to overwhelm him and drag him into the abyss of intellectual darkness from which he may never again rise. It had taken John a good long time to figure out how much Sherlock feared any kind of boredom, and why.

However reliable Sherlock's methods may have been in the past, John did not feel ready to follow his example and employ the same strategy to this particular problem. However he tried to imagine scenarios that could explain what had happened since that fateful day, in the end he had nothing to go on but a weird username. Sherlock would have said he needed more data. There was no more to be gathered from this letter, and John decided to do exactly what Sherlock would have done – gather more data.

His heart rate spiked as he began to type a reply. With any luck, the person on the other side would respond, thus inevitably revealing more about themselves. Hopefully, he would find the answer to the riddle of his friend's death – he would discover whether Sherlock was still alive or not.

Everything depended on the detective being alive, and every string in John's heart clung to the notion.

* * *

**I think an explanation is in order. "Losing you" is not one, but three stories, that conclude at three different points in time.**

**Story number 1: chapters 1, 2 and 3, also titled "The reunion".  
**

**Story number 2: chapters 1, 2, 4, 5 and 6, also titled "The whisperer".  
**

**Story number 3: chapters 1, 2, 4, 7 and 8. This one is "Losing you" in the most strict sense.  
**

**Enjoy!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Alternative ending number one: The reunion**

John Hamish Watson was upset. No, actually he wasn't merely upset. He felt downright dejected. He had been reminiscing this morning about the days past. He had been thinking of Sherlock Holmes.

It had been three years since the death of the great detective – three uncertain, agonising years. John still believed that whoever had sent him the message signed Bluebell243 had done it with some other purpose than to complain about the declining quality of his blog.

He had in fact written to the stranger, trying to elicit a response – any kind of response. It had been to no avail. There had been no answer and John had felt stupid for indulging in the hope of Sherlock's continued existence. He had even asked Lestrade to look into the matter, possibly track down the location from which the message had been sent. It had turned out to be an internet café. There had been no securities cameras and too many people coming and going for anyone to remember anything. Of all the rotten luck.

Suffering from the shock of disappointment, John had learned to accept Sherlock's absence, although he had never lost hope that his friend might still be among the living. His life had been dull, the exact thing Sherlock would have despised to no end.

On a particularly unremarkable day, John was making himself a cup of tea and a sandwich. He was just about to exit the kitchen when the front door opened and he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of one very much alive consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. (No pun intended.)

The nerve of the man! He was supposed to be dead!

Acting careless, John proceeded into the living room, setting down his cup and plate on the nearest horizontal surface. He then wheeled around and walked up briskly to Sherlock, who was at that precise moment about to say something, but was cut short because John hugged him, fiercely, wrapping his arms firmly around Sherlock's middle.

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, tried to take a step back, but John said, "Don't," and so he didn't. Instead, he said, "Uhm, John? I can't breathe."

"Deal with it," was the only reply he got from John, who was still stubbornly clinging on to him, and what was even somewhat embarrassing to the otherwise unbaffled genius, was leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

After a long pause of silence, John released Sherlock from his grip, simply taking a step back and looking up at the slightly annoyed detective.

Sherlock, wearing the expression of utter boredom, straightened his clothes and asked, rather tersely, "Are you done?"

John thought about it for a second then replied in his most mild voice, "Almost."

The next thing Sherlock knew he was punched in the face by the good doctor, who found Sherlock's gasp of surprise to be most satisfying.

Sherlock stumbled backwards, slammed into the wall – there was the look on his face again, this time one of hurt dignity, mixed with proper outrage. His left cheekbone was already swollen and bleeding a little. John stated, "Now I'm done."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, but John just stood there, looking very pleased with himself, and Sherlock decided to simply ignore what had just transpired, and to continue with his original order of business.

"We've got a new case, John."

"I thought you'd never say."

They went out and about as if the last three years had never happened.

John never discovered the identity of Bluebell243, and Sherlock never told him he had not in fact sent the message. He had had someone else send it for him.


	4. Chapter 4

"You didn't want me."

The accusation tasted sour in John's mouth.

Sherlock stared at John, his face pale – no, John mentally corrected himself, not pale, _white_ – looking like he hadn't slept in years. Knowing Sherlock, John suspected he actually hadn't.

"You knew what was coming. You knew it was a set-up and you planned it to the last detail. You're brilliant, Sherlock. You committed suicide and walked away to tell the tale. Perfect."

The genius in question was silent – just as silent as his grave had been on that bloody sunny day. It didn't even look like he was breathing. What was going on in that head of his? What convoluted analysis was he developing while John tried to explain about hurt, and loyalty, and friendship? Did any of these concepts even apply to human beings in Sherlock's mind? Or were they merely rhetorical, created for the sake of entertainment of lesser men?

"You told Molly. You told her, despite the fact that she had practically dated Moriarty, and you trusted her anyway. I was your friend, I defended you when people would insult you, I helped you catch bad guys, you used me as your guinea pig and pointed a gun at me, still I trusted you with my life, not to mention my sanity, and you. Didn't. Trust me."

Still Sherlock said not a single word or made a single move to even acknowledge John's presence. John was beginning to think Sherlock didn't even _see_ him, despite the fact he had been staring at John for the better part of the last fifteen minutes.

"You're supposed to be an intelligent man, Sherlock. Tell me why I shouldn't kick you out of my flat right now. No, strike that. I'll just shoot you. And then phone Lestrade to save him the trouble of finding the culprit, which is so obviously beyond his capabilities, according to a selfish, arrogant sod that you are."

Insulting Sherlock to his face had been a fantasy of John's ever since his anger had boiled to the surface, diminished his respect for the deceased friend and soiled all memories of their adventures with bleak and bitter feelings of resentment. Yet Sherlock seemed to think nothing of the words John spoke. He could have been talking about the weather.

"You know, people were right about you. People like you, no matter how brilliant or clever they are, people like you don't deserve to live. You have no place in this world, Sherlock. There were ever only a handful of people who were willing to put up with you and you've just run out of supply."

There it was, the truth. Sherlock was the most amazing man John had ever known, probably even a hero. As long as he had been present, everyone seemed to have needed him. The police had relied on their consulting detective to solve cases for them, John had found peace in the incessant thrill of the chase after criminals, Mrs. Hudson had been busy and content taking care of her boys, and so on and so forth. Sherlock had been the centre of everyone's life – even Moriarty's. As if Sherlock had been the sun, and all the rest of them had been mere planets in his orbit, reflecting and dispersing his brilliant light into the empty, dark places of the universe.

"Lestrade is doing just fine without you, if you haven't noticed. I bought the flat after Mrs. Hudson died – it was a heart attack, by the way, if you care but you probably don't. I have a girlfriend, her name is Mary, and we've been going out for almost a year now. Your brother doesn't need you because he's just as clever as you are and probably cares even less."

Because once Sherlock was gone and things had gone back to their original pace, life went on. John had cried, had not slept, had tried to kill himself. One day he had woken up, feeling nothing. It had been the beginning of a new life for John. A chance for a new, fresh start. Nobody really needed Sherlock anymore.

"Get out. Get out and don't come back. You've survived this long without me, without all of us, I'm sure you can go on doing that. After all, you don't care. Oh, have you heard? Molly got married last month. I don't believe she's ever been happier."

John got up and started looking for his walking stick. His limp – and his tremor – had returned about a week after Sherlock's supposed death. It bothered him less than he had feared it would.

Sherlock handed him the cane without a word. As John grabbed it, he accidentally looked Sherlock in the eye and saw, for the first in his life, probably for the first time in anyone's life, that Sherlock was crying. Silent, still as stone, crying like his heart was breaking because of everything John had said.

John continued to look at him and said nothing. He was, after all, an average human being and his brain was slow at grasping the reasons behind his friend's tears.

Sherlock would not have reacted emotionally if he hadn't believed – hadn't known that John was telling the truth. Nobody needed him anymore. He was a nonentity – a human being without friends, without even one friend who would want him around. He was no longer necessary. His great skills, honed to perfection, were no longer of use to anyone.

Sherlock lost everything he had ever had right there and then. He had always assumed his powers were valuable to more than just himself. He was forced to realize that it was not so. The bonds of civility, forged between normal, stupid people were strong. People were not willing to put up with his whims, not even for convenience's sake. They valued their small, dull lives higher than any service Sherlock could provide.

His only advantage his whole life had been that he had not let anyone realise just how nice life would have been without the annoying presence of Sherlock Holmes. He had made a mistake of going away. Disappearing from people's lives had been the final straw. Now they were fed up with them, just as they had always been, but this time they knew it.

John knew it. And seeing John not care for him made Sherlock cry, as his heart – the heart he had always assumed was absent – shattered and all the little pieces of emotions he had never felt before became sharp splinters in his flesh.

The pain of it outweighed his abilities to rationalise, and his mind was, for the first time in his adult life, blank. Silent and dark, unmoving, unthinking – dead.

Everyone gets only so many chances in life to be loved, desired, wanted. Sherlock's chances had just ceased to exist, and he collapsed on the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Alternative ending number two, part one: The whisperer**

When Sherlock fell to the ground, John wasn't really surprised. He assumed the detective had neither slept nor eaten in weeks. He made sure Sherlock was breathing, moved him into proper recovery position and called an ambulance. Then he sat down and watched the immobile body that housed one of the greatest minds humanity had ever known, and a thought slowly came to him. A thought that should have been obvious years ago.

It had all been _too_ convincing.

Sherlock had gone to great lengths to fake his death. He had planned it all out in his own meticulous fashion. Nothing had been left to chance. It was unusual for him to take such precautions. He must have had a very strong motive. And the outcome, of course, had been brilliant – everybody, except Jim Moriarty, had survived. Everyone, except Mrs. Hudson, was still alive. John was still alive.

There it was – the thought that should have been obvious, but wasn't.

Sherlock must have anticipated Moriarty's every step. Having the upper hand, Sherlock could have had his pick of his priorities. He could have chosen to prove Moriarty's guilt no matter the cost – he could have settled for catching the villain first, and revenging the death of his friends second. But no. No. Sherlock had gone about the whole situation in an entirely different way.

He had known his friends had been in danger. He had decided to put Moriarty out of the picture in such a way as to ensure his friends' lives would remain untouched. The solution to his case had not been first and foremost on his mind – his vast, powerful mind. He had shown unusual amount of consideration for other people's well-being.

It had been unprecedented and frankly, unexpected. Maybe that was why John hadn't seen it sooner.

Sherlock had kept John alive by abandoning his career, leaving his home and risking their friendship. It was the most selfless act John could think of, and he had just called Sherlock arrogant and selfish, and had just maybe put him in a coma.

Sherlock's course of action had ensured John's survival. He had brought down the bad guy, and had thrown himself into the bargain for good measure.

Who's the selfish, arrogant sod now, John?


	6. Chapter 6

**Alternative ending number two, part two: The whisperer**

Sherlock woke up in a hospital bed. He had been sedated; the drug had left a sweet aftertaste in his dry mouth. How long had he been unaware? He did not know.

How had he got here? Of course, John. He was a doctor; he wouldn't leave an unconscious stranger lying on the ground. That was exactly what Sherlock had become, a stranger.

"I hope you are feeling better."

John was there, speaking calmly as if any words could even matter after what had been said between them. Sherlock looked at him and was immensely relieved to see that he had been in hospital for no more than two days, and that John had only left him once during all this time, and that he had had a tuna sandwich while out.

John didn't like tuna and would not stoop to eating it unless there had been an emergency. He must have been worried and in a hurry to get back to Sherlock's bedside. John still cared for him, contrary to his own words, and what was just as important, Sherlock's mind was still functioning properly.

A lifetime of habit cannot be broken and the ritual of analysis had become second nature to Sherlock. After losing everything he had been relying on, it would have been a disaster to forgo his mental faculties as well. However, Sherlock noticed with a touch of anxiety, something had changed.

Some part of his mind had detached itself from the whole. Acting now as a separate entity, it had acquired a voice of its own, and whispered in Sherlock's ear. It commented on his every observation and conclusion in the superior tones of someone who knew where the true value of all men lay.

In their hearts.

Sherlock did not agree. The mocking voice was, while not directly damaging to his line of reasoning, disturbing and therefore unwanted. An unwelcome intruder in Sherlock's mind, worrying him, causing doubt.

Oh no, Sherlock had no reason to question his deductions. The logic had not failed him yet. He was right, as usual, and he knew it, as usual. What was brought under suspicion was the effect his demeanour had on those surrounding him.

Sherlock had never had to think about that sort of thing, and why would he start now? There was nobody else in the room except John.

Oh. John. He had only spoken all of six words to Sherlock and already the incessant voice drove Sherlock to distraction with its soppy suggestions. Yes, soppy was the right word. For all its scornful attitude the voice was extremely prone to near idiotic displays of affection.

For instance, he wanted – no, it wanted that he put his arms around John, and hold on for dear life. Why Sherlock would even want to do something like that was beyond him.

_Because he's your friend and he cares about you and you care about him, idiot,_ the voice scoffed.

Well, the part about John caring for him was true enough, Sherlock could see the evidence with his own eyes. But did he care for John? He tried to push the question aside, unsuccessfully. He then tried to decide that he didn't care, but it was a lie, and it soon proved to be a mistake on Sherlock's part.

His newly divided psyche took revenge on him for denying the truth. Again, Sherlock found himself in the absolute emptiness, devoid of thought. The emptiness, despite being – by definition – empty, was full of pain, and fear followed in its wake.

Sherlock struggled desperately to think, and succeeded.

A leopard cannot change its spots, and Sherlock was quick to deduce the workings of his own mind. After all, the mind is but another field of research, discernible and tractable.

"John…"

He could speak no more in his present state of mind, but the numbing blackness eased off the moment he registered his own voice had been neither commanding nor derogatory.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

What could he say?

_The truth, silly,_ said the voice in his head. _Here, I'll help. Tell him you need him. You know it's true, you blacked out when he showed you the door. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out._

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat, and his mouth felt dry like a desert. John stood up, and for a second Sherlock panicked, thinking John was going to leave because he had not spoken soon enough.

But John only walked over to the bedside table. He poured a glass of water and handed it to his friend.

Sherlock took the glass but didn't seem to know what to do with it. John recognised the look in his eyes as the 'I can't be bothered to notice you or anything you do because I am thinking' look. He almost smiled. All the time they had been friends, John had secretly taken care of Sherlock, making sure that the detective had eaten proper food, drunk enough liquids, and gone to bed early. It hadn't worked half the time, but some of John's efforts had born fruit, and the habit had become a pleasant and amusing one rather than a tiresome obligation.

John was pulled out of his reverie when Sherlock looked up at him, obviously having come to a conclusion. John waited, patiently, as he had waited all those years, and Sherlock gazed at him with questioning eyes.

To John, the question had always been the same. He had never answered it in words, and Sherlock had never received an answer he could trust.

_Is it possible that you actually like me? Is it as strange for you as it is for me? Does it always feel this good, to be liked?_

Silence stretched on, but as they continued to look at each other, the air seemed to fill up with friendship, until it was almost tangible, a third presence in the room.

_You see that? We made that. It binds us together. It protects us. It makes us whole. Just say it, Sherlock._

"I… I need you."

_I trust you. I have always trusted you. Don't turn your back on me, John. I'm only human._

"Then I'll be here. When you get out of the hospital, you can have your old room back."

Sherlock finally raised the glass to his mouth and drank, not taking his eyes off John, who suddenly discovered he had had enough of male bonding for one day and decided it was time to run some errands. Sherlock was probably still in shock, but he would be home in two days at the most, and John had other things to take care of beforehand.

"It's late. I'll be back first thing tomorrow to see how you're doing. Try not to insult the medical staff, okay? They're not used to you like I am."

John put his coat on and picked up his walking stick, only to find out he didn't need it anymore. He set it back down and did his best to ignore the sounds coming from Sherlock.

Sherlock was caught halfway between saying something clever in order to show off, and trying to suppress a fit of laughter, brought on by John's belated realisation that he had walked from the chair to the bedside table without a single limp.

He gave Sherlock a look clearly saying, _Don't push your luck_, and Sherlock straightened out immediately. It was John's turn to hide a smug smile.

"Good night, Sherlock."

John was already through the door when he was called back, "John! Bring me my nicotine patches!"

"This is a hospital, Sherlock! You can go and buy them yourself when you come home."

Sherlock lay back on the bed, looking like the cat that got the cream.

"Thank you, John."

"What was this about?"

"I just wanted to hear you say 'come home'."

Sherlock had already closed his eyes, and John was free to leave, shaking his head in exasperation, smiling, his heart ready to burst.


	7. Chapter 7

John,

I killed myself. For real this time.

I killed myself because I found no love in this world that would be enough. No love would ever be enough for me because I simply do not care. So I am saying goodbye.

You don't need me. Nobody needs me.

I wish you all the best.

SH


	8. Chapter 8

It had been three months since Sherlock's death. Actual death, not fake death. John had gone through the whole grieving process the second time around. It had been much easier than the first. Practice makes perfect.

Still, whenever the sun shone brightly and every little thing in the world seemed happy, John looked up at the sky, to the edge of the building where he had lost his friend for the first time. And he could not help but wonder if Sherlock had really died or had just decided to leave and never come back. It was hard to say.

_I hope you're all right, Sherlock. Wherever you are. I hope there aren't too many idiots and I hope you are not bored. See you, eventually. If there is anything to see once you're dead._

_Love, _

_JW_


End file.
